Like a swift summer breeze,
They reached me,
Like the rain,
They shook me,
Like the sun,
They awakened me,
Like the moon,
They are the sweet lullaby that puts me to sleep,
Like a mother,
They comfort me,
Support me,
All the while, never knowing what they have done for me.
Never knowing me.

Love is unattainable; this is no exaggeration.

It is simply the way of my generation to dismiss all sentimental feelings in the name of reputation, but for some poor, idealistic fools still enchanted by the forgotten practice of romantic gesture.

Do we truly listen
Or do we pretend and move on to what we have to say
We say 'Yes, hmm, but, I...'
And we go on
Speak of ourselves
And move on
And once again pretend to acknowledge the words of another
Does anyone ever truly listen?
Does anyone actually care about what I have to say?
Perhaps that's why we write poetry
We've lost the connection...
Or we are so struck by that one moment
Where another truly acknowledges what we had to say
So we write it
About that mere simple moment
Where they actually cared
Perhaps we write so someone will hear our thoughts
Someone will care to listen
Not put up a facade
With a fake smile and nod
But someone
Who actually listens
To this poet's heart.

Surprise
Is sometimes too much salty
still
A sweet dish any time

I know now
what it all means.
Why did no one ever tell me?
When I was just a little girl.
That boys with china blue eyes
and long dark eyelashes.
That smell of cigarettes.
And taste like summer rain.
And whisper sweet words
like the roll of spilt quicksilver.
Are the reasons
why
my pillow is so wet.
and my poems
have tears.